


Caught In The Rain

by Thefanfictor



Category: 1776 (1972)
Genre: Alternate Universe - College/University, Arguing, Enemies to Slightly More Friendly Enemies, Gen, Humor, It is now, Pizza, Rain, Rainbows, but i decided not to put it there for reasons, is that a tag?, this could technically be part of adventures, well at least it doesn't directly contradict anything in that universe
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-12
Updated: 2018-10-12
Packaged: 2019-07-12 20:40:31
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,652
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16002893
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Thefanfictor/pseuds/Thefanfictor
Summary: Rainstorms, while not being ideal weather during which to travel, are perfect for getting trapped under a store awning with one's mortal enemy.  If they deliver pizza there, that is . . .





	Caught In The Rain

**Author's Note:**

> I have a list of Colleges AU-related prompts lying around somewhere and thought it was a criminal offense that I hadn't used any yet. Thus, this. Enjoy, y'all.

The rain started five minutes after John left the coffee shop.  He didn't think much of it, just felt tiny specks of water sprinkling his his head, clothes, and cappuccino lid.  It wasn't until an enormous raindrop smacked him right between the eyes that he noticed the masses of gray clouds blotting out the sky.  Swearing, he hoisted up his backpack and took off at a sprint.

It was coming down in earnest by the time he spotted shelter: a shop awning with a table and two chairs, only one of them occupied.  Suddenly hopeful, he quickened his pace as sheets of water obscured his vision, but grew increasingly concerned about whether he'd survive the rest of the journey.  He cursed himself for not bringing an umbrella.  Was it possible to drown standing up? With his luck.

Raindrops peppering his clothes, shoes scraping against rough sidewalk, he flung himself across the last few feet into the respite of the awning and collapsed, breathing hard, into a cold metal chair.  "Good God," he mumbled, eyes sliding shut.

"Adams? What the hell are you doing here?"

John's eyes shot open.  Sitting across the table from his in the opposite chair, wearing a green jacket and an annoyed frown, was the single worst person he'd ever had the displeasure of meeting.  

"Do you really not have anywhere else to go?" Dickinson asked, evidently misinterpreting John's silence as his cue to go on.  "I mean, I understand the appeal of this place, but _really_?"

"It was the first place I saw with an awning! I didn't pick it on purpose to spite you," John snapped.  "Besides, I've got a final paper in this backpack; I'm not moving."

"I see." Dickinson turned a speculative eye toward John's coffee cup, and John hastily moved it out of his reach.  "Well, the weather forecast called for rain until afternoon, so you'll be stuck with me for a while."

Not having actually checked the weather forecast that morning, John slipped his phone out of his pocket to look for himself.  "Partly cloudy with a high of 52 . . . showers from 12 . . . to . . . 1 PM." John put his head down on the table.  "Fuck.  Me."

"Buy me dinner first," Dickinson said.  John lifted his head to glare at him.

An uncomfortable silence fell over them as they sat and watched the rain coming down.  Neither one wanted to be the first to break it, although after a minute or so John got up and started pacing back and forth, restless and irritable.  Staying still wasn't in his nature.  Dickinson, meanwhile, sat back to file his nails.

John glanced over at the door of the cafe-bakery-whatever under whose awning he stood.  The blinds were down over the windows so he couldn't see inside, but maybe he could slip indoors until the rain died down.  Of course, it probably wouldn't be much better than his current circumstances, but he'd be able to get away from Dickinson at least.

"You know it's closed right?" Dickinson didn't even bother to look up from the nails on his right hand.

"I knew that," John mumbled, face hot.  He resumed pacing.  For another few minutes, the only sound was that of the rain drumming on the sidewalk.

"Do you think they deliver pizza here?" John burst out.  He couldn't help it; the silence would've suffocated him if he'd kept quiet any longer.

Dickinson gave him a strange look (though most of his expressions could rightfully be called strange).  "I'm sure I don't know." He blew a delicate stream of dust off his emery board and tucked it into the pocket of his jeans.  "Why? Didn't you pick up  _anything_ besides coffee when you were . . . wherever you were?"

"There's nothing wrong with coffee," John said defensively.  "Besides, if this rain keeps up, we might be here until lunchtime."

To John's astonishment, Dickinson nodded.  "Good point.  Speaking of which, do you have a book I can borrow?"

"I---huh?" Still reeling from the shock of Dickinson actually agreeing with him for once, John was completely blindsided by the sudden subject change.  "You want a---what?"

"A book," Dickinson repeated impatiently.  "You know, something to read.  Sitting here is getting boring; I'd settle for a magazine at this point.  You do know what a book is, don't you?" He added when John continued to gape at him.

"Of course I---no, I don't have one! Just use your phone." His face was probably redder than ever, and as he so often did around Dickinson, he felt a strong urge to punch something.

"Can't.  My phone died like ten minutes ago." He held it up for good measure.  "If it hadn't, do you really think I'd be sitting here with you?"

Probably not, John realized, but he wasn't going to give him the satisfaction of saying it out loud.

Dickinson was still talking.  "I mean, I have things to do today.  I'm  _supposed_ to be meeting a lady in an undisclosed location.  Actually, I probably should've called her for a ride."

John made a silent promise to himself: if this turned into a discussion of Dickinson's sex life, he'd throw himself into oncoming traffic.  "So when you say a lady, do you mean . . . ?"

"Mary," Dickinson said, grinning.  "See, we have the same Gender Studies class, and I thought we could compare notes, so . . ."

Tuning out the rest of his monologue, John stared out into the rain again.  Why hadn't he thought to call a friend to ask for a ride? Of course, he didn't really have many friends, and those he did have would probably be too busy laughing at his predicament to be of any real help.  He could call an Uber, but he'd really hate having to throw away perfectly good money for something that trivial.  No, his best bet would be to just wait it out.

Almost absentmindedly, he sat back down and started rifling through the contents of his backpack.  His hands encountered a beat-up laptop held together mostly by duct tape and human hope, a spiral notebook containing his thoughts on debate, several essays in various states of completion, something crinkly he hoped was a granola bar but turned out to be a half-empty packet of tissues, assorted coins adding up to 42 cents, and a sweatshirt he'd been using as a back pillow.  Finally, his fingers closed around a little stack of cards.  With much scuffling and cursing, he managed to extract them.

John straightened and examined the notecards in his hands.  They were out of order (he hadn't numbered them), and he could barely read his own handwriting, but he knew what they said.  Clearing his throat, he stood up.  Again.

"What are you doing?"

"Hm?" John glanced up from his cards to see Dickinson staring at him a little suspiciously.  "I have to give a speech on Monday.  I'm practicing.  You can take notes if you want."

"Huh."

Something in Dickinson's tone put him on the defensive.  "We've got nothing else to do," he pointed out.  "Might as well . . ." he trailed off, unsure of what to say next.

For the second time that day, Dickinson nodded his agreement without arguing (John wondered if he was feeling alright).  He resettled himself, one elbow propped comfortably against the arm of his chair.  "Okay.  Hit me."

"With pleasure," John muttered, and began.

It was a pretty good speech, if he did say so himself.  Which he did, or would have if he hadn't been in such mixed company.  As he gave it, he periodically tossed glances at Dickinson to gauge his reactions, though most of the time his face remained frustratingly blank.  Once, John heard him stifle a laugh, but only caught a glimpse of him rearranging his features into a neutral expression.

When he'd finished, he tossed the cards back onto the table and waited.  And waited.  "Well?" He demanded, after a solid two minutes of waiting had gone by.

Dickinson looked thoughtful.  "It's . . . not terrible.  It's not fantastic, either," he added, seeing the look of growing triumph on John's face.  "Just not terrible.  Your lack of faith in your audience is kind of depressing."

"You haven't given me much reason to have faith in you," John shot back.  "All your opinions are wrong and whenever you start talking it makes me want to punch you in the face.  Most other people are just idiots."

Dickinson rolled his eyes.  "You may think that, but letting people  _know_ you think that won't exactly help you get them on your side.  If you come off too aggressive, people will want to oppose whatever you're saying on principle."

"How do you know?" John asked, more than a little insulted.

"It's what happened with half our debate club," Dickinson said dryly.

"I---" John started, then broke off.  Damn it.  He had a point.  "You sound like Franklin," he said instead, sitting back down.

Dickinson gave him a crooked smile, which managed to be more infuriating than the eye roll.  "I knew there was a reason he and I get along."

"Shut up," John grumbled.

"What? I'm just trying to spare your audience the pain of leaving class with a headache," Dickinson said.  "I've suffered too many post-debate migraines to inflict that on other people, especially when I can do something to stop it now."

"No, really.   _Shut up_."

This time, the silence that stretched between them was almost pleasant.

"What time is it?" Dickinson asked abruptly.

John checked his phone.  "12:32 PM," he said.  "Why?"

The smile was back, yet somehow less aggravating than before.  "Did you still want pizza?"

Right on cue, John's stomach started making itself noticed.  "That would be nice," he admitted.  "Did you have something in mind?"

Dickinson's eyes lit up.  "Phone please."

With some reluctance, John handed it over, hovering anxiously at Dickinson's shoulder so he could at least supervise its use.  "What're you doing?"

"I know the perfect place," Dickinson said.  " _And_ they have a delivery app." Ignoring John's incredulous expression, he opened the menu and started flicking through options.

They actually managed to agree on pizza settings right up until they came to the question of toppings.  "I'm not having  _anchovies_ on my pizza," John said, trying and failing to swat the phone out of Dickinson's hand when he saw him going to select them.  Even leaning over, he couldn't quite reach it, and nearly tipped his chair over in the process.

"I like anchovies," Dickinson said.  He went to select them again, but John, changing tactics, grabbed onto his wrist.  "Ow! Okay, fuck you! This is my favorite coat!" When John still didn't let go, Dickinson shifted the phone to his other hand and held it even farther out of his reach.  "Quit it, or I'll put pineapple on both halves!"

John's heart stopped.  "No fair," he complained once it was beating again, but he released his grip on Dickinson's wrist.

Dickinson looked inordinately pleased with himself as he shook out the cuffs of his jacket.  "Pineapple is a tragically underrated pizza topping."

"Uh huh.  Remember what I said about all your opinions being wrong?"

Dickinson seemed not to have heard him.  "Well, we now have a pizza in the making!"

"There better not be any anchovies on it," John said, and successfully reclaimed his phone

The pizza arrived after another few minutes of stupid little arguments that ended faster than they began.  Despite the semi-truce they'd established (or was that John's imagination?), perhaps it was just natural for them to fight.  It certainly hadn't stopped Dickinson from throwing an eyeliner pencil at him when John called him a fribble.

"What the hell is a fribble? Is that even a word? Give me my eyeliner back," Dickinson demanded.

John huffed and tossed it to him.  "Of course it's a word! It means---"

"Whatever," Dickinson said.  Then, under his breath: "Lawyer."

"Wha---YOU ARE A LAW STUDENT!"

"Oh, look," Dickinson said.  "Our pizza's here."

It was.  A little car with the pizza place's logo on the side had pulled up at the curb moments before he'd spoken.  A girl stepped out the driver's side, squinting against the rain and holding a pizza box under one arm.  She looked around, confusion growing, until John waved her over.

"Um, hi," the girl said, pushing a strand of wet hair out of her eyes.  "Did one of you order a pizza?"

"Both of us, actually," John said.  He tried to come up with something to say while also trying to look like he hadn't just been shouting at the person next to him, which wasn't easy.  He was almost relieved when Dickinson spoke up.

"Yes, we ordered pizza! I was kind of surprised it worked; it couldn't have been easy for you to get it here." He gave her a smile that would've been charming if John didn't know what an asshole he was.  "Sorry for any inconvenience."

"Oh, uh, no problem," the girl said.  "It's, you know.  My job." She set the pizza box on the table between them.  "Your total is $15."

John stared expectantly at Dickinson, who shrugged.  "Don't look at me.  I spent my last five on coffee this morning."

"You don't drink coffee," John pointed out.

"What's your point?"

John tossed up his hands.  "So, what, you're not going to help me pay for  _any_ of this?"

"Something like that, yeah," Dickinson said.  "This  _was_ your idea."

"Well, yes, but---" John suddenly noticed the girl staring at them both.  "Fine." Sighing, he dug a crumpled twenty out of his pocket and handed it over.  "Keep the change."

The girl nodded, and promptly fled from their insanity.  If he could have, John would've done the same thing.  Then, Dickinson lifted the top of the pizza box.

He was halfway through his third slice before he remembered to breathe.  "This.  Is.   _Really_.  Good."

Dickinson edged his chair away.  "Maybe I should've put pineapple on it after all."

"Does that mean you're not having any?"

"I didn't say that," Dickinson said hastily, scooping a piece out of the box.  "Leave some for me."

"Hey, I paid for it," John said, and helped himself to more.

Together, they demolished the pizza in what felt like about ten seconds.  John polished off another piece and wondered if it would be rude to take the last slice without asking.  He decided he didn't care, and was reaching out to grab it when Dickinson tapped him on the shoulder.  He scowled.  "What?"

"It's stopped raining," Dickinson said.

Indeed, the soft tapping of rain on the pavement had vanished, leaving behind a quiet much too empty for his taste.  That peculiar post-rain smell now hung in the air, and the faintest hint of sunshine was beginning to poke its way through the massive clouds.

Beside him, Dickinson laughed softly.  "What's funny?" John asked.

"Huh? Oh, nothing, it's just---" he was still laughing a little "---look, there's a rainbow." He pointed, directing John's gaze into a far corner of the sky, and there it was.

"Good God," John murmured.  The rain had kept him under the awning with Dickinson for so long, now that it was over, he almost didn't want to leave.  "What do we do now?"

"Well . . ." The corners of Dickinson's mouth turned up.  John had only a split second to think,  _uh oh_ , before in one fluid motion, Dickinson slung his backpack up onto his shoulder, snatched the last slice of pizza out of the box, and dashed off down the street, shouting, "See you in debate!" over his shoulder.

"HEY!" John exclaimed indignantly.  He made a halfhearted attempt to chase him down, but settled for shouting "Asshole!" at Dickinson's retreating back instead.  He could hear him laughing a block away.

Shaking his head, John went back to retrieve his own backpack and headed off in the opposite direction at a walk.  Some things never changed.

**Author's Note:**

> Hope you enjoyed; please leave a kudos/comment if you did!


End file.
